


hark! the herald angels sing

by jemmasimmmons



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Christmas fic, F/M, childhood enemies to friends to lovers, rival carol singers au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 07:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8882296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemmasimmmons/pseuds/jemmasimmmons
Summary: The Christmas she is five years old, Jemma Simmons receives a striped party dress, a stuffed toy polar bear, a set of colouring pencils and an arch nemesis. 
A rival Christmas carollers AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> merry christmas one and all! thank you so much for writing such wonderful fics this past year, and for being so kind about mine. the idea came from this prompt list on tumblr: http://pynchs.tumblr.com/post/105232513786/holiday-aus-for-the-christmas-spirit
> 
> i hope you enjoy this little story and that you all have wonderful christmases and a peaceful holiday season.

 

 

The Christmas she is five years old, Jemma Simmons receives a striped party dress, a stuffed toy polar bear, a set of colouring pencils and an arch nemesis.

The arch nemesis, naturally, hadn’t been on her letter to Santa.

Instead, he is a part of the rival carolling group to her parents’ choir, which she is being allowed to join this year. Every Christmas Eve afternoon, the two carolling groups stand at either end of the high street and have a competition to see who can raise the most money. It is, of course, all for charity and supposed to be fun but no matter how many times her parents try to tell her this, Jemma can’t understand how it could ever be so.

It is a competition, and one she intends to win.

She spots him hanging around his mother’s skirts as the adults chatter around them, and skips over to him. Tapping him on the top of his woolly hat, where there is a bright red bobble dangling, she beams as he turns to face her.

‘Hello.’ She sticks out her mitten-ed hand for him to shake. ‘I’m Jemma. I’m in the _other_ choir.’

The boy gives a long sniff and draws the back of his hand underneath his nose, making Jemma quickly retract her hand, lest he try and take it afterwards. ‘Hello.’

A little disappointed at his lack of interest, she tugs at her father’s coat and he passes down her song sheet to her. A little bloom of pride sparks inside her at the familiar sight of the words she is learning to read and the black notes on striped paper that she _knows_ mean something, even if she is not quite sure what, and she turns back to the boy in triumph.

‘We,’ she declares to him, puffing out her chest (as much as her duffle coat will allow her) as she waves her sheet at him, ‘are going to win.’

All of a sudden, the boy looks up at her and, as she watches, his face breaks out into a wide grin. He shakes his head at her.

‘Oh no, you’re not,’ he says, before latching onto his mother’s hand and dragging her away, leaving Jemma standing on the corner of the high street with her mouth open and the distinct, irrefutable impression that she had just found her arch nemesis.

If she was entirely honest, it was just a little bit thrilling.

 

* * *

 

 

The next year, she learns that his name is Leopold Fitz, and he is almost exactly the same age as her. Her parents have known his mother, Andrea, for years, and they have been singing in their choirs on the high street since long before she and Fitz were born.

Sitting at the kitchen table, swinging her legs, Jemma nibbles at the icing of a gingerbread biscuit. ‘Do you suppose he’ll be there today?’ she asks.

Her mother barely looks up as she hurries about the kitchen, preparing the charity bucket and Santa Claus hats ready for the carolling competition.

‘Oh, darling,’ she says, absently, ‘I should think so. If Andrea is going, I expect Leopold will be coming with her.’

Remembering that she left her purse in the bedroom, she gives a groan of frustration and takes the stairs two at a time to retrieve it. Jemma waits until she hears the bedroom door bang, then shoves the rest of her biscuit into her mouth.

‘He’s my arch nemesis, you know,’ she says to her father, who is sitting beside her, reading the paper.

‘Hmm?’ He looks down at her in bemusement. ‘Who is?’

‘Leopold Fitz.’

‘Ah.’ Reaching over, he refills her Christmas mug with warm, frothy milk. ‘That’s nice, darling.’

 

This time, it is Fitz who taps her on the shoulder when they meet on the corner of the high street.

‘We won last year,’ he says smugly, squaring his shoulders as much as his slight frame will allow. ‘Even though you told me _you_ were going to. You were _wrong_.’

Fighting back the urge to stick her tongue out at him, Jemma puts her hands on her hips and rolls her eyes instead, a gesture she has seen her mother make to her father a million times.

‘Well, _of course_ you won last year,’ she explains, as if she is explaining to someone very much younger than she is. ‘I wasn’t properly prepared. But I am this year, so we’re going to win.’

Fitz crosses his arms over his chest and smirks. ‘I bet you don’t.’

In another perfect mimicry of her mother, Jemma raises her eyes towards the sky and shakes her head. ‘Leopold Fitz, you truly are my arch nemesis.’

His eyebrows shoot so far up his forehead that they are almost lost in his abundance of curls.

‘I’m your arch nemesis?’

‘Yes. You are.’

‘Oh.’ For a moment, Fitz’s face screws up, as though he is seriously considering something. Then, he looks up with a newfound determination. ‘In that case, you’re _my_ arch nemesis too!’

There is something wonderfully vindicating, Jemma reflects, about having someone agree with you that you are worst enemies. But there is something even more vindicating about beating your worst enemy in a carolling competition, and she cannot resist finally sticking her tongue out at Fitz when she leaves, carried aloft on her father’s shoulders.

 

* * *

 

 

The Christmas they are eight, the competition steps up a notch.

Jemma has been given the very important job of holding out the charity bucket to receive donations from the public, a responsibility that she is determined to take very seriously.

She resolves to take it even more seriously when Fitz’s carolling group arrives and she sees that he has been given the exact same job.

Strategy, Jemma decides, is the key to getting the most money. In previous years, she had observed that the bucket holder usually had little to no strategy. They would stand next to the choir, their mouth tucked inside their scarf, and occasionally shake the bucket to let listeners know it was still woefully empty. This, Jemma had realised, was no way to do things.

She begins by picking a spot in the centre of the choir and holding the bucket out in front of her as she sings along, making sure to open her mouth wide to show her enthusiasm. Then, when this failed to bring in satisfactory donations, she takes to moving about the crowd, still singing, whilst offering the bucket to anyone still with their hands in their pockets.

Once or twice, she comes across a particularly stubborn member of the public, and has to break off from singing to remind them of the value of charity and insist that every coin they could spare would count towards the greater good.

With the heavy weight of her bucket forcing her to let it sink to the ground, Jemma lets out a satisfied sigh, certain that all her efforts will guarantee her choir a victory. It is only when she glances across the street and notices how Fitz is doing that her heart starts to sink.

Fitz had also assumed a strategy, but one very different in nature to Jemma’s forthright logic and reasoning. Widening his eyes as far as they would go, so that they just started to water, he is tilting his head to one side as he wanders around the crowd, raising his face up to each individual he passes.

As Jemma watches, everyone listening’s hands go straight to their wallets and she hears coin after coin drop into his bucket.

When the money from both buckets has been counted up afterwards, Andrea Fitz looks from her son’s victorious grin to Jemma’s trembling lip, and quickly deposits £4.87 into her bucket, making both totals match.

It is the only year that their groups draw, and both Fitz and Jemma agree that drawing is _far_ more disappointing than losing.

 

* * *

 

 

The Christmas they are eleven, Jemma decides that, in order to properly beat Fitz’s team, they need to do something a little bit different.

On Christmas Eve morning, she prints off several song sheets of authentic Latin carols and laminates them before hands them out to her parents. Her father takes his amicably enough, having taken Latin at school, and recites a few back to her until she is satisfied.

Her mother, however, is far more resistant.

‘We’ve sung the same songs for almost twenty years, darling,’ she protests, as Jemma practically clambers into her lap to get her to read the new music. ‘I don’t see why changing them now is going to make a difference.’

‘But it will, Mum,’ Jemma insists, leaning her head on her mother’s shoulder and batting her eyelashes. ‘Please?’

Her mother eventually gives in and when they leave for the carolling competition, Jemma takes her stack of Latin carols with her. The other carollers look a bit dubious as she hands them around but they reluctantly agree to give singing them a try.

Across the street, Jemma notices Fitz’s group setting up and feels her lip curl at the thought that they have no idea what she has planned. When he glances up and catches her eye, she smiles sweetly at him, before pointedly straightening her song sheet.

Unfortunately, her master plan does not work out entirely as expected. In her pride over the perfect lamination of her sheets, she had completely overlooked the fact that Latin required different harmonisations and had quite difficult pronunciation and after twenty minutes of struggling through them, her group unanimously decides to swap the Latin carols out for their regular ones.

Swallowing down her disappointment, Jemma pins a brave smile to her face and continues to sing as loud as she can, but it is all in vain. By the end of the afternoon, Fitz’s team are the clear winners.

He ambles over to her, his hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face that Jemma wishes she could wipe right off.

‘So,’ he says, ‘we won.’

‘Yes.’ Pulling herself up to her full height (which was at least an inch taller than him), she crosses her arms over her chest. ‘You did.’

‘Two years in a row now.’

‘You did not win last year!’ Jemma objects, ‘it was a _draw_!’

‘Yeah,’ Fitz agrees, ‘but it was only a draw because my mum made it one. _Technically_ , we won.’

Unwilling to continue the argument, Jemma bends down to collect her laminated song sheets instead. She can feel Fitz watching her as she does so, and takes care that she puts them together extra tidily.

‘What are those?’

‘Oh!’ She blinks at them pointedly, as if she has only just noticed she is holding them. ‘These? They’re our new song sheets. They’re _laminated_.’

Fitz looks mildly impressed as he examines one. ‘Huh. They’re in Latin, right?’

Nodding, Jemma allows him to see more. ‘I got the translations from official websites, so they’re all authentic,’ she says.

‘I don’t doubt that they are,’ Fitz says. Then, he looks up at her and grins. ‘Shame they didn’t help you win, though.’

Jemma isn’t quite sure what makes her want to do what she does next. Perhaps it is because he had admired her lamination, or perhaps it is the spirit of Christmas. Whatever it is, it makes her step forward and wrap her arms around his shoulders to hug him.

Fitz stiffens underneath her touch, and after a few moments he pulls away from her.

‘What did you do that for?’ he wants to know, his cheeks pink and red blotches appearing down his neck.

Jemma shrugs heavily and gives him her purest, most angelic smile.

‘Because,’ she says, ‘you’re the best arch nemesis I’ve ever had.’

 

* * *

 

 

The Christmas they are fifteen, one of the carollers in Fitz’s group invites both teams to a party after the competition. Jemma sits, cross-legged in an arm chair, watching her parents chatter with the other adults as they sip mulled wine out of paper cups and eat minced pies off napkins patterned with sprigs of holly.

Jemma’s own mince pie is uneaten in her lap and she toys with the corners of the pastry in the glow of the lights of the Christmas tree. All of a sudden, a shadow falls over her and she looks up.

Fitz is standing next to her chair. Over the past year, he had grown quite a lot, and his limbs look a little too long for his body. ‘Hi.’

She narrows her eyes at him. ‘Hi.’

‘So, um…’ Rubbing his hands together, he bounces on the balls of his feet. ‘I was just wondering whether you were actually going to eat that.’

He nods to the mince pie, and Jemma glances down at it. ‘Oh. I suppose not, no.’

She offers it up to him with the napkin, but Fitz only takes the pie, popping it into his mouth in one go. Jemma watches, aghast.

When he notices her staring, he shrugs. ‘What?’

‘I don’t even think you chewed that.’

‘Of course I chewed it! Just…not all that much.’

‘Urgh!’ Jemma’s nose wrinkles, and she shakes her head in disgust. ‘Fitz, that’s _horrid_.’

‘S’not! Mum says I’m a growing lad, and I need to eat all that I can. Not chewing means I can eat faster.’

‘It also means,’ Jemma observes, ‘that you’re more likely to choke and get indigestion.’

‘Hmm.’ Fitz frowns and sits down on the arm of her chair, suddenly holding his stomach and looking a little queasy. ‘You might be right about that one.’

Together, they stare out at the party around them, at their parents growing gigglier and the sky outside growing so dark they are able to see the stars shining in the sky. After a little while, Jemma finds her head slipping sideways to rest against Fitz’s leg.

It feels strangely comfortable, sitting with him like that, especially when they have been self-proclaimed arch nemeses for almost as long as she can remember. Jemma wonders whether it has something to do with how their relationship has never changed. Her friendships at school often fractured, waned, or dissipated in ways she didn’t quite understand, but she was always able to count on Fitz being there every Christmas Eve, ready to challenger her once more.

He is her constant, in a world that is always changing.

After a little while, Fitz clears his throat.

‘You’re really good, you know,’ he says. ‘At singing. I know I’ve never said that before but…well, you are.’

Jemma shifts in her chair, so that she is looking up at him. Fitz’s cheeks are red, and she can’t tell whether it’s from the warmth of the fire or something else. ‘Oh. Thanks.’ She leans back against him again and smiles for a moment before adding: ‘you’re pretty good too.’

‘Wow. How much did it hurt you to say that?’

‘Quite a lot, actually. Please don’t ask me to say it again.’

She can feel him laughing, his leg behind her head starting to shake, and it makes her smile unexpectedly. When he gets up to fetch another mince pie, he brings her back a slice of Christmas cake, and two glasses of orange juice.

‘Hey, Jemma?’

Picking the marzipan off her cake and popping a piece in her mouth, she shakes her head. ‘If you’re going to ask whether I’m going to eat this then the answer is partly. I’m going to eat the icing and the cherries, and you can have the rest if you want?’

‘No – I mean, _yes_ , I do want your cake – but that wasn’t what I was going to ask.’

‘Oh.’ Frowning, Jemma looks up at him. ‘What were you going to ask then?’

Fitz had already eaten his mince pie, and he is anxiously twisting the napkin in his hands. She sees him swallow hard before glancing down and meeting her eye. ‘The thing is…I’ve loved being your arch nemesis. I’ve loved every minute of it, honestly, but I just think that I’d enjoy being your friend even more. Do you…do you think maybe we could be friends instead from now on?’

Jemma thinks about this, about how being enemies with Fitz had always been so much easier than being friends with anybody else, and how maybe, just maybe, there was a reason for that.

Looking up, she sees the hope in his eyes, and she smiles.

‘Yes. I think I’d like that a lot.’

 

* * *

 

 

The Christmas they are eighteen, they don’t take part in the competition at all.

Instead, they escape, hand-in-hand, when their parents aren’t looking, and head into the town to spend the afternoon together.

They trail around the shops, and Jemma helps Fitz pick out the last of his Christmas presents. He gets a pretty photo frame and a colourful scarf for his mum, and she buys a hardback copy of _A Christmas Carol_ for him when he isn’t looking.

They wander through the Christmas grotto in the main department store, picking up strings of different coloured lights and artificial wreaths and golden baubles, and when Fitz accidentally knocks over a display of reindeer teddy bears, Jemma thinks that she might die laughing.

In the end, they find themselves sitting on a bench in the middle of the high street, eating roast chestnuts and listening to the sound of both their choirs, only faintly able to be heard heard from either end of the street. The light is beginning to fade, and above their heads the Christmas lights are on, bathing their world in a soft, silver glow.

Jemma takes his gift out of her coat pocket and offers it to him.

‘Merry Christmas, Fitz.’

His face light up as he rips the paper off to reveal the book. ‘Hey! Like _The Muppets_ film?’

She can’t help rolling her eyes as he flips through the pages. ‘Yes, Fitz. Exactly like _The Muppets_ film. Although I expect Charles Dickens would like you to think it’s just a _little_ bit better.’

‘Well,’ Fitz says, tucking the book into his rucksack, ‘I think I’ll have to be the judge of that.’

He pauses, fishing in his bag for something. Jemma folds her hands in her lap and waits. Finally, Fitz pulls out a slightly rumpled present, tied with a red ribbon.

‘Sorry it got a bit squashed,’ he says sheepishly, as she takes it from him and unties the bow. ‘It’s been in my bag all day, and I sort of forgot it was there…’

Pulling the last of the wrapping paper off, Jemma finds a small black box inside. When she opens it, a lump appears in her throat.

‘Oh, _Fitz_.’

Inside the box, there is a delicate necklace with a treble clef music note dangling from the chain. She lifts it out so that it hangs in her hand, the silver links twinkling in the light.

‘It reminded me of you,’ Fitz says quickly, as she continues to stare at it, ‘and I thought that you could take it to Oxford, so that when you’re studying Bach or singing operas, or whatever it is you do in a music degree, you can wear it to let everyone know you’re the best. And maybe it’ll even make you think of me, buried in my history textbooks up in Leeds.’

Jemma laughs, tears pricking at her eyes. ‘Of course it will. Of course _I_ will.’ Leaning across the bench, she presses a quick kiss to his cold cheek. ‘Thank you, Fitz. Truly.’

He rubs at the back of his neck, and she notices that the tips of his ears have turned pink. ‘You’re very welcome.’

Across the street, a round of applause goes up and both their heads turn to watch Jemma’s choir take a bow as the crowd cheer for them. Glancing back, Jemma can’t help but grin at the residual glower on Fitz’s face.

‘Do you want to join in?’ she asks, casually. ‘One song each? For old times’ sake?’

Fitz grins at her, and she feels her stomach leap at the glint of mischief glowing in his eyes.

‘That’s the best Christmas present you could ever have given me.’

She wonders if he is regretting saying that an hour later, when her team wins the competition and she wins the right to gloat about it to him for the next year.

 

* * *

 

 

The Christmas they are twenty one, Jemma isn’t allowed to go at all. She has a filthy head cold, the kind that makes you nauseous and tired as well as unable to breath for the snot in your nose, and on Christmas Eve she is hardly able to stand up straight her balance is so off.

Much to her own frustration, her parents decide that it is best she stays at home and at two o’clock they leave for the competition without her for the first time in years, leaving Jemma tucked up on the sofa under a mountain of blankets, wallowing in self-pity.

She is just drifting off into sleep when a knock comes at the front door, swiftly followed by the sound of the door opening.

‘Hello? Jemma?’

She sits up, wondering if she is still asleep and dreaming that he is here.

‘Fitz?’

His head appears around the living room door, and when he steps into the room clutching several carrier bags and beaming at her, she knows that she is not dreaming.

‘Hey. There you are. You look terrible.’

‘Thanks.’ Jemma sniffs, leaning back against the pillows. ‘Your hat is falling off.’

Fitz grabs sideways, just in time to stop his bobble hat slipping off his head and falling to the floor.

‘I brought medicine,’ he says, opening the first of his carrier bags and stacking bottles up on the table in front of her. ‘Just in case you didn’t have enough, and the pharmacist also told me to get some herbal tea, and here’s an extra blanket…’

He passes her a fleecy red blanket, patterned with reindeers pulling a sleigh, and Jemma takes it from him, obediently tucking it on top of the six other blankets she is buried beneath.

‘Oh!’ Fitz is unpacking the last carrier bag, and he pulls out a DVD case victoriously. ‘And I also picked up a _Carols From King’s_ DVD. Just because you can’t sing carols this year doesn’t mean you can’t watch them.’

Jemma shakes her head as he moves to her television, slotting the DVD into the player and picking up the remote.

‘Fitz…what are you doing here?’

He sits down next to her on the sofa, and she notices that his leg is jiggling and he can’t quite meet her eye as he examines the remote control.

‘I met your parents on the high street,’ he explains, ‘and they said that you were ill and weren’t gonna make it this year. When I said that I’d go and sit with you, they gave me a key because they weren’t sure that you would make it to the front door without falling over.’

Jemma has to roll her eyes at that, but the idea of Fitz resolutely making his way over to her house to check on her makes the heaviness in her chest feel just a little lighter and she smiles.

On the television, the familiar choral sound of the carols begins to play and Fitz takes the opportunity to poke her in the side.

‘Pass me a blanket.’

She gives him back his fleecy red one and, impulsively, shifts closer to him on the sofa.

‘You’ll get ill too,’ she warns, as he lifts up an arm to let her lean against his chest.

‘Mmm,’ Fitz agrees, pulling the blankets around the both of them. ‘Probably. Just try not to breathe on me too much, if you can help it.’

Grinning, Jemma settles back against him, listening as the King’s choir starts to sing the comforting notes to _Once in Royal David City_. There is a spot on his shoulder, just before the crook of his neck, where her head fits perfectly.

‘Fitz,’ she mumbles.

‘Yeah?’

‘Are you going back?’

‘What, am I boring you _that_ much?’

‘No!’ Half turning around, she thumps him on the arm. ‘No, of course not. It’s just that…your team won’t win without you. You’re the best singer they’ve got.’

For a moment, Fitz is silent. ‘Do you really think that?’

‘ _Of course_ I do.’ It is easier, Jemma finds, to say these things to him when she doesn’t have to look at him. ‘I’ve always thought that,’ she adds, softly.

Fitz’s hand drifts downwards, until his fingers are just brushing against her waist, holding her steady. On the screen, the song has changed to _O Come All Ye Faithful_ , and they both fall quiet, listening.

‘I’m not going back,’ Fitz murmurs, and Jemma can practically feel him breathe the words onto the top of her head.

‘Oh? Why not?’

‘Because there’s no point if you’re not there with me.’

 

* * *

 

 

The Christmas they are twenty three, Jemma realises that she is falling in love with Fitz.

She counts the signs in her head, as she stands with her choir opposite his, belting out _Good King Wenceslas_ on Christmas Eve.

First, there is how much pleasure she takes in texting him daily throughout the year, reminding him of how many days they have left until Christmas. His texts back come almost instantly, either with some corny joke or a quip about how easily his team was going to beat hers. His replies always leave Jemma grinning like an idiot at her phone. Once, she had even walked into a lamp post she had been too busy tapping out a reply.

Secondly, there are all the memories of the times they have shared together over the years, memories of laughter and competition and music. Jemma remembers them every time her fingers come up to her throat to rub at the musical note around her neck. She remembers the way it had felt to lie against his chest and breathe with him, the way his fingers found the perfect place to rest against her body. She remembers how cold his cheek had been before she kissed it, and how it had started to burn the minute her lips touched his skin.

Thirdly, and perhaps more importantly, there is the way her heart leaps whenever she hears his voice. Hearing it now, as he sings the harmonies to _Away in a Manger_ across the street, Jemma finds herself smiling.

Whenever she hears Fitz sing, it feels like coming home.

Crossing the high street towards him after the competition, she knows Fitz is fully expecting her to gloat about their win, for the fourth year in the row. Determined not to be predictable, Jemma takes a deep breath and, before he has a chance to open his mouth, brings a gloved hand up to his cheek to bring him down to kiss her.

When she feels Fitz start to kiss her back, his smile pressing so hard into her lips it feels as if he is trying to leave a mark, she wonders whether he is falling in love with her too.

 

* * *

 

 

The Christmas they are twenty five, their carolling groups decide to do something they have never done before. As the snow begins to fall on Christmas Eve, for the first time they sing their carols together.

It had been Fitz’s idea, one evening in October when he and Jemma had been curled up in the armchair of his flat.

‘We should sing together this year,’ he had said. ‘You know, celebrate the coming together of our two teams, the ending of an age old feud...’

Jemma had laughed. ‘That makes us sound like Romeo and Juliet,’ she had teased.

Grinning, Fitz had tipped his head forwards and kissed her, gently, on the lips. ‘Heaven forbid,’ he had murmured.

And so, with a little negotiation between their parents, it had been decided that the two groups would sing together on Christmas Eve, merging their song sheets and CDs and, hopefully, bringing in more money for charity than ever before.

Standing in the middle of the choir, with Fitz’s hand holding hers and their voices joining together to sing their final carol, _Hark The Herald_ , Jemma cannot help but think about how far they have come since the first time they heard each other sing, now twenty years ago. They had been children, unaware of how important they were about to become to each other, unaware that deciding to be one another’s arch nemeses would be the best decision of their lives.

Glancing sideways, Jemma looks at Fitz and feels a rush of delight when she thinks about how far much _more_ time they were going to have together.

Almost as if he had heard her thoughts, Fitz looks down at her and grins, giving her fingers a quick pump between them. Squeezing his hand in return, Jemma turns back to the crowd, with a smile so wide it feels like it is about to split her face.

Once the singing has finished and the clapping has died down, but before the crowd has the chance to disperse, Fitz quickly clears his throat and steps forward in front of the choir, pulling Jemma with him by the hand. Frowning, she raises one eyebrow at him questioningly, but he only gives an almost indistinguishable shake of the head.

‘Jemma,’ he says, and it is only because she knows him so well that she can hear the quiver in his voice. ‘Over the past twenty years, you have been my arch nemesis, my best friend, and everything in between and beyond. Ever since the day we met, I’ve wanted something from you. I wanted to be better than you. I wanted to be your friend. I wanted to kiss you, more than anything I have ever wanted before. And now, there’s just one more thing that I want.’

With a deep, shuddering breath, he looks up and meets her eyes. Seeing the tears shining there, mirroring her own, Jemma gasps and clamps her hand over her mouth.

‘I’d sing this part,’ Fitz says, as dryly as his wet eyes will let him. ‘But I really don’t think I need the words.’

And, as he sinks down to one knee in the snow, he is quite right. He doesn’t even need to open his mouth, because Jemma is already right next to him, peppering his face with kisses and telling him _yes_.

The crowd erupts into applause as she pulls them both to their feet and once they are up, Fitz lifts her by the waist and spins them in an unsteady circle in the slush. Laughing, Jemma can hardly wait until he lets her down before she is bringing his face close enough to hers so that that she can kiss him again, her hands on either side of his face and her heart quite firmly his.

‘It makes,’ she breathes, ‘the most perfect sense.’

‘Oh?’ Fitz kisses her again, gently caressing the back of her neck. ‘Does it?’

‘Yes.’

Pulling back slightly so she can see his face, radiant underneath the Christmas lights, Jemma smiles.

‘Because ever since I was five years old, the only think I have ever wanted for Christmas…has been you.’

 

 

The Christmas she is twenty five years old, Jemma Simmons receives a cashmere scarf, a biography of Mozart, a diamond ring and the promise of spending of a lifetime of Christmases with Leopold Fitz.

 

 


End file.
